


Not So Far Away

by philsgiggles



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Established Relationship, Implied religious themes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Song: Get to You (The Honeysticks), kinda depressing fair warning, or not you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 20:22:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18289565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philsgiggles/pseuds/philsgiggles
Summary: Phil decides to go on a walk.





	Not So Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Get to You" by the Honeysticks in accordance with phandomficfest's Shuffle Mode Fest! I tried to get the vibe, so it ended up vaguely sad...
> 
> Anyhoo - enjoy, my sweets...

Phil woke eventually, groggy and unwilling. He blinked his eyes and the ceiling shifted. He fantasized for a moment, watching gray flakes fall down onto him like the crust of a pastry. If he turned his head on his pillow to the right, he could see spiderwebs in the corner and the entrance to the bathroom. If he turned his head to the left, he would see a beautiful man, preserved in his ethereal state, cheeks flushed and mouth open gently as he slept. But Phil didn’t turn his head. No, instead, he stared at the ceiling.

A crack ran along from the bottom left corner of his vision to its middle right edge, splitting off only once in a small fracture making its way down towards the ceiling light in the center of the small room. If one were to enter the room, the first thing they would notice - after quickly releasing the rusty doorknob, swarming with clusters of bacteria - would be the piles of clothes strewn all around agitatedly and the gray-beige taste of the air, along with dubious streaks of something vaguely brown and sprinkle-filled by the door. Then perhaps, disregarding the figure in the queen bed by the wall, one might notice the cracks in the plaster and the cockroaches that hurried away when the door opened and hid in the dark folds and wells of the abandoned clothes. There would be a strong feeling in the room, a feeling of rust - as if the room was crumpling in on itself and its own tears were the ones to rust its edges in true cannibalistic form.

Or perhaps they would only notice the bright light coming in from the windows and the ceiling light that would never be turned on, and the clean white of the worn towels in the bathroom, and the emotions the room stored in its walls. Phil did not. But the man whose warm breath ghosted his shoulder always did. Always.

Phil let out a breath. He couldn’t stay in bed, not again. Not after the day prior, when the maid service came calling two times before he left the room in search of food. He had been tempted to stay, against the guidance of his petulant stomach, but had given in by the time the diner had stopped serving its lunch menu and had begun on dinner.

In a flash of delayed motivation, he turned to his side to watch the form sharing his bed breathe. In and out. Heart and lungs still pumping, even in sleep. Phil ached to reach out and touch him somehow - brush a hand against the curls that rested peacefully on his pillow, graze a hand across his cheek. But he couldn’t. So he didn’t. But he watched.

And eventually, Dan woke, too. And he opened his eyes and looked at Phil, who watched with vivid clarity the moment Dan’s pink lips began to say Phil’s name.

“Morning,” he whispered. Phil felt something rise to his throat, choking him with malicious intent to keep him from replying. “Let’s get some breakfast. You need it - think I’m starting to see your ribs.”

Phil wanted to say something snarky in return, but, in the end, settled for a nod. He held Dan’s eyes. _Okay_ , he mouthed, but nothing came out. Dan smiled softly in return before pushing off of the bed and beginning to dress, flashing Phil in the process. He began pulling clothes from a suitcase on the floor and tugging them on just as Phil finally worked himself up just enough to follow suit. Dan’s eyes roamed over Phil’s figure, and he pretended not to notice. Usually, a little voice would cheer faintly in the back of his head, gleeful for catching such a boy in his web, but not today. Today, his heart sank at the implications of the way the light in the room highlighted the curve of his ass in a way that was far too perfect.

Phil bent to pull on pants, and the charm on Phil’s necklace, a worn golden cross, bounced against his chin, sending a shudder through his body. Dan’s germaphobic nature always made him beg Phil to get it cleaned, but he couldn’t bear the thought of erasing all of that history from the metal. He pushed it out of his mind. Not now, not today.

“Not today, love,” said Dan, now fully dressed and hovering by the door.

“Right,” Phil replied after a pause, “Not today.”

“Diner?” Dan’s hand lingered on the doorknob. Phil numbly registered his mistake. He frowned.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

 

***

 

Their hands never touched, their arms close but never making contact as Phil brought Dan on the post-breakfast walk he had petitioned for. Arm, leg. Arm, leg. Again. And again. In silence. If Phil were to turn his head to the left, he would see Dan strolling beside him, a slight smile quirking up the corners of his lips, as if privy to some secret the rest were not. He’d see that one curl that always fell onto his forehead, the swoop of his tangling eyelashes, the slight turn at the tip of his nose. But Phil didn’t turn his head. No, instead, he gazed into every shop window he passed. And his heart ached.

In Harry’s, the barbershop with that signature swirling post out front that always made Phil nostalgic and that he remembered Dan always brushing with a sweater-covered hand when he walked in, he saw himself in a chair.

He smiled softly and stopped walking, feeling Dan echo his movement beside him. He remembered that day. It was summer; Phil could see droplets of sweat dotting his forehead. He recalled how hot his necklace got that day as if it were trying to burn, knaw its way through his skin like the rats in a hot metal bucket he had seen on Game of Thrones. But when he took Dan’s hand, he forgot any discomfort, even if the charm seemed to burn even brighter out of admiration of Dan’s own rays that rivaled those of the sun.

That was the day he finally made the switch to a modern hairstyle, more similar now to soccer players or models than Gerard Way and the like. (The 2009 Phil hiding out in his mind, surrounded by Muse posters and clutching his band shirts to his chest, possessive - and volatile - as a hoarding dragon, had faded away that day.) Dan was there all the while, a hand on his shoulder as they locked eyes in the mirror. That day had, surprisingly enough, turned into perhaps their first truly intimate moment, surrounded by the bustle of a business whose nearest competition was twenty miles away. Phil had anchored himself to that hand on his shoulder, to the eyes looking in his own, and he had made the change. And it was okay.

Phil blinked once, shaking off his short pause and continuing down the street. He was nearly alone on the street - save for Dan and a few stragglers - the rest of the town at work, the time too early for a lunch break and too late to see the morning rush to offices and small businesses, to the highway, to the city with a five dollar bill for lunch.

When he passed the street corner where he had tripped and earned himself his first scar (on his knee in a crescent shape), he glanced across the street just in time to see him and Dan crossing the opposite way. They held hands and Phil could feel the emotion pouring out of their eyes as they looked at each other.

They had moved together to Hansfield, North Carolina, in the summer of 2017, after they had been together for four years. Dan was only eighteen when they had first gotten together, Phil twenty-three and struggling through his final semesters of university and clutching to Dan like a buoy. Until he couldn’t anymore.

Phil vaguely felt Dan leading him toward a little metal bench under the local ice cream store’s awning, where they sat together as Phil caught up with his thoughts. This had been happening often lately - when his recollections of the past swarmed his brain and obscured any thought of whatever Phil was currently doing, forcing him to stop and process them in a narcissistic manner.

It had been a Saturday night, late enough to be considered Sunday in legal terms, but not in the eyes of the two boys who were panting and rutting in Dan’s basement after his senior prom. It had been a special night, so movie-magic perfect that it only stood to reason that there was no way it could continue. No, there had to be something to ruin it.

It wasn’t their first time, not by far, nor was it their first time in Dan’s basement, which had a bedroom and backdoor and was practically screaming for them to use it, but it was the first time since they had said that they loved one another and, though perhaps sappy, it was new to both of them. It was wonderful, hot, amazing - until it wasn’t.

Until Dan’s father came downstairs to find the panel that controlled the sprinklers. When they didn’t hear his footsteps. When Phil rolled to the floor as quickly as he could when he finally did hear the approaching intruder and began pulling on his clothes like a madman, still on the ground. And Dan buried himself under the covers. But it was too late. And Dan moved into Phil’s apartment the next day.

They chose Hansfield because of its large gay population. It was no slum, nor was it excessively wealthy, but instead was the middle-class suburbia heaven they were looking for, accepting and small and progressive and close-knit. They were debating children. It was perfect. Until Dan got bored.

“C’mon,” Dan said, “We’re never gonna get there at this rate.” He huffed in false impatience.

“Yeah, yeah,” Phil mumbled, “Coming.” He stood, brushing off his ass quickly and rejoining Dan by the corner, waiting for the walking signal.

As they waited, watching the unmoving red hand stare them down, one more copy of Dan began to stroll down the street in front of them, caught up to one moment later by a jogging Phil, laughing and motioning for him to slow down. When he caught up, grabbing at Dan’s arm and spinning him around, they kissed, and Phil’s heart broke just a little. It was then that he registered their clothing: two crisp black suits, Phil’s chain tucked neatly into his shirt, residing just beside his heart.

They pulled one another happily into a nearby doorway and disappeared from sight.

The light turned white. Phil walked. He walked until he reached the doorway he and Dan had just ducked into, only to find himself stopped short outside of the windows as he saw, almost in slow motion, as the version of himself on the inside of the glass bent down on one knee, tears in his eyes. He watched as Dan nodded furiously, hit him on the arm, and hid his face from the rest of the restaurant.

Turning his gaze toward the back of the restaurant, he could just make out their first meal there through the cheering crowd and Dan’s teary-eyed chant of “I love you.” Phil had been so awkward - new to the town and to cohabitation, so much so that it almost felt like their first meal together. He had stumbled over his words, had stuttered and giggled. But Dan took his hand over the table, a surprising act of bravery, especially from Dan, and smiled, and Phil’s heartbeat slowed. That night had been a special one, too.

If he were to look for only a moment longer, he might have seen their last meal there, too. When they sequestered themselves in a corner in the back to hide Dan’s puffy eyes and flushed cheeks and drowned their misery in mountains of pasta. Angel hair for Phil, tagliatelli for Dan. Always.

Phil’s hand strayed to the base of his throat thoughtfully as they continued their slow walk. Over the years, he had assigned various meanings to the little charm from his little habit. When he was insecure, whenever he touched it, it was meant to remind him to relax. Or when he was depressed, it was meant to remind him that people loved him. Now, it was a cold piece of jewelry, unwarmed by his skin. 

He dropped it as if it had burned him and picked up his pace.

 

***

 

They sat in the park for about an hour without speaking. It would have been nice some other time, but today, Phil’s mind was torturously blank, numb in a way that hollowed out his insides and stuffed them with snakeskin - discarded, cold.

Tears dried on his cheeks.

Dan took his hand. Or he didn’t.

And then they went back to the motel.

 

***

 

It was a Thursday night, dark early and clouds blocking the moon. It would rain later. And Phil was happy. He had just returned from his monotonous job in the city, after which he stopped at a Krispy Kreme to buy a dozen donuts for he and Dan to share - it was that sort of day. But the donuts were quickly forgotten, dropped to the floor and leaving streaks of glaze across the seventies-style carpet. Because Phil saw something he would never forget until the day he died: his fiancee, splattered in red and sobbing, surrounded by spilled wine, its shattered bottle in hand. His eyes were feral, wild and jumping from thing to thing, breathing shaking and quick - too quick. Far too quick.

Phil had run to him, sliding to his knees and earning himself several scrapes to worry about the next day, and wrestling the bottle out of his hand. It was only then he noticed the phone Dan held in his other hand, open to a text conversation. He took that, too, and read it as he held Dan, who was shaking like a wet puppy, though he remained unhurt, to Phil’s great relief.

He scrolled up.

“Oh, Dan.” 

> **Hey dad. Just wanted to let you know I’m getting married so if you want to come I’d really like that. No pressure or anything just wanted to let you know! :)**

The further down Phil scrolled, the angrier he grew. Dan was perhaps the least deserving person Phil knew of all of the shit he went through, and yet there they were, Dan sobbing profusely onto Phil’s shoulder because of some fucked up text from his father. In that moment, Phil preemptively pardoned himself for murder.

Eventually, Dan’s breathing leveled out and his death grip on Phil’s back loosened. 

They went to get spaghetti.

Dan never looked Phil in the eye that night. And he never would again. The next day when he woke to an empty room and bed, Phil found a single phrase on the mirror, written in the drugstore lipstick they bought together in a happier time: I’m sorry. That was the last he ever heard of Dan Howell.

 

~~~

 

Phil, frozen in the doorway, looked over at his Dan, the one who had accompanied him throughout the day, and, without a word, without any motion but a soft smile and a stray hand on his necklace, sent him away. Dan smiled back. And then he was gone.

Phil let out a breath he had been holding for longer than he knew. And then he was gone, too, on the road, never to return to Hansfield, North Carolina for as long as he lived.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments make me happier than Dan being a 24/7 thirst trap!


End file.
